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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24384760">sticks &amp; stones</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashisfriendly/pseuds/ashisfriendly'>ashisfriendly</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars Sequel Trilogy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Coming of Age, Eventual Smut, F/M, First Kiss, I live for high school au's but this is my first reylo one hey hey hey, Lonely Rey (Star Wars), Loss of Virginity, Misunderstandings, Rey plays lacrosse but I do not lmao, Teen Angst, Teen Romance, mentions of abandonment, mentions of neglectful foster families, please help these lonely and misunderstood teens, this will have cute moments despite these dreary lookin tags, we love sad rey hours!!!!!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:08:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,387</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24384760</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashisfriendly/pseuds/ashisfriendly</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s awake, it’s real. She’s on her way to Coruscant Academy. She’s been scouted for the varsity girls lacrosse team. She’s starting her own life. One that wasn’t dumped on her, but one she’s earned. One where she belongs, maybe where she’ll have her own place. A place where she is welcome, a place that wants her, not just houses her.</p><p>A home.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>sticks &amp; stones</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hey! Welcome! This is my first big ol' reylo fic. I love high school and college au's and I've been brewing on this one for awhile so thanks for taking the time to check it out. I've never been to New York nor played lacrosse but of course the plot took me here, okay, so please be gentle and also just have fun. I write for fun and enjoyment and I hope you read for the same! A big ol' thank you to <a href="https://twitter.com/sedsempersolo">sedsempersolo</a> for the most beautiful mood board. And thank you to Jazz for the encouragement and cheerleading and copious amounts of Adam Driver photos.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>Toothbrush. Facewash. Sunscreen. Stuffed doll with overalls that are fraying along the straps. Clothes. $536. Hair ties. Hair brush. Folder with three pieces of very important paper. Backpack. Phone (WiFi only). Two pairs of shoes and one pair of cleats. Pencils. Deodorant. Tampons. Anne of Green Gables with the Goodwill sticker still on the cover. Underwear. Bras. Socks. One photograph. Gum. Sunglasses. Lacrosse stick.</p><p>All of it belongs to Rey.</p><p>It’s not much, the stock of her life. But it is hers.</p><p>Everything in this very crisp, brand new duffle bag is hers. A collection of belongings that have come and gone, but the cycle of stuff feels more permanent than some other parts of her life. These belongings, even the hair ties that get left in school lockers or on the break room floor of Unkar’s are hers. The deodorant that runs out, the shoes that earn holes, pants that start to ride up her calves as she stretches and grows, they belong to her. </p><p>There’s so little that actually belongs to Rey. The homes she’s lived in, the families she’s shared meals with -- they aren’t hers. Not really. Most of what comes into her possession doesn’t come to her brand new, without a past or a previous owner. There’s memories of others etched into the fabric of ill fitting t-shirts and books with broken spines. Even at school, everything was borrowed, serial numbers tracing back to her as if Niima High couldn’t live without one of its hundreds of copies of The Great Gatsby. Laptops used and returned at the end of the school year. Hers were the only summer papers turned in on college ruled notebook paper.</p><p>As she got older, she started to figure out how to find her own resources. She started to fend for herself, started to collect her own belongings, her own self. An island, covered in sand with treasures waiting to be discovered.</p><p>Like the five dollar bill she found on the floor of the school bus in 3rd grade that she used to buy Anne of Green Gables. She bought the iPhone she uses through whatever wifi connection she can find from someone on Craigslist. It was kindly wiped clean by someone in the AV Club in exchange for weed she swiped from from her house. Her cleats she bought from Goodwill from her paycheck at Unkar’s. </p><p>Her stick she earned from Niima High. It was a loaner, just one from the pile for gym classes, but on her last day at there, her coach gave it to her.</p><p>“Can’t show up to Coruscant empty handed,” she said to Rey, a kind smile on her face.</p><p>Rey wanted to cry. She didn’t. Not until she walked home.</p><p>Trees blur in oranges and reds and greens outside the window. The bus is quiet, a Godsend for Rey whose last pair of headphones finally died right before her trip. Someone a few rows behind her is listening to music so loud it’s blasting through their headphones, but the rhythmic static mixes nicely with the hiss and rumble of the bus. She’s sitting criss-cross on the seat, tilted toward the window so she can watch the world outside. She’s been in Niima, or one city over and back again, all her life. Watching the landscape change along the highway has been fascinating. Who knew there were this many trees, or flowers that sprouted along something other than cactuses in the wild? She knows, of course, that hills covered in green and trees other than palms can grow so high, but to see it -- it’s different. Tangible. With a feel and taste. Sharp, soft, refreshing.</p><p>New.</p><p>As Rey makes her transfers, she’s ill prepared for the weather changes. She doesn’t have a neck pillow to make the nights easier, but she can curl up in her new sweatshirt, the fabric not yet soft from wear and multiple washings, but warm. Hers.</p><p>She makes feasts out of vending machines, stuffs chip bags and candy bars in her sweatshirt pocket and duffle bag. At rest stops she checks her email and flips through social media as if there will be something to see, a friend to check on.</p><p>At night, when she can’t sleep because there are too many people snoring and Rey’s forgotten to buy headphones at the last gas station again, she watches lights go by through the window. Sometimes, she lets her eyes focus on them for too long, inviting the sting so she can remember that she isn’t asleep, that this is not a dream.</p><p>She’s awake, it’s real. She’s on her way to Coruscant Academy. She’s been scouted for the varsity girls lacrosse team. She’s starting her own life. One that wasn’t dumped on her, but one she’s earned. One where she belongs, maybe where she’ll have her own place. A place where she is welcome, a place that wants her, not just houses her.</p><p>A home.</p><p>
  <strong>&amp;&amp;</strong>
</p><p>Rey expected this.</p><p>This overwhelming feeling of loneliness and voyeurism. A heavy, tight feeling has formed in the pit of her stomach and she’s so tired from traveling that she almost feels like she’s in a movie. A movie she’s definitely not the stare of, but rather watching in the audience, alone.</p><p>She passes the entrance to campus, balloons tied to the iron gates to welcome students back. A security guard welcomes her to campus and points her in the way to the Skywalker building to start her registration journey.</p><p>Rey watches the cars go down the road as she turns to take the pedestrian path. Cars are full of luggage, families, lamps and boxes. Every car looks crammed and Rey feels almost comically empty handed with her duffel bag and lacrosse stick. </p><p>Her legs keep walking, what she sees rolling through her mind in an endless list.</p><p>Mothers. Fathers. Siblings. Boxes. Bags. Bags. Bags. Hugs. Friends. New clothes. Kisses.</p><p>Of course this, watching and yearning, isn’t new to her. There’s a comfort in it, the familiarity, but it feels magnified in this new school and new place. Truly on her own, not even a neglectful foster parent to account for her. </p><p>There’s a small slope and the road splits, taking cars one way and a walkway straight forward. The path is wide and paved, lined with trees that have succumbed to autumn and are overflowing with orange, red, and brown leaves. It’s breathtaking, actual fall. Fall in Niima just means cooler temperatures and the start of school and pumpkin spice lattes. Here, it seems, the entire Earth changes.</p><p>Through campus, the grass is lush, the trees colorful. The sound of the soft breeze mingles in her ears with the screams and laughter of reconnection. Rey keeps her head down, trudging along, watching for the signs that point her toward registration. She takes a couple pictures of the trees, another of one of the ancient buildings constructed of brick and stained glass. She’ll send them to her social worker whenever she can get wifi.</p><p>True to the security guard’s word, there is a big display of twisting balloons of blue, silver, and green twisting into overgrown arches on either side of the entrance to the Skywalker building. This building looks new, but imitates the older ones she saw on her way. Rey crosses the courtyard, encircled by the Skywalker building and two older ones. She has to sneak past a few groups and pairs chatting, families trying to find where to go, a paper map clutched in a mother’s hand. </p><p>Rey waits in line, her thumbnail scraping at a piece of tape on her stick. When it’s her turn, she gives the administrator her name and is handed a folder with her name printed on a label and stuck to the front. A sticky note is pressed onto the top, too, an appointment with the athletic director scribbled across it.</p><p>“Your dorm assignment, class schedule, and meal card are all in there. You’ll get keys from the RA in front of your dorm. You need to pick up your uniforms by Sunday night, 7 o’clock. You can pick them up, now, if you want, over there.” Rey nods, information overwhelming her, but she tries to tidy it into a to-do list as she looks where the man motions for uniforms. “You’ll take your picture and get your student ID and laptop down the hall and to your left. The IT department office. There’s a line over there, so you can’t miss it.” Rey nods again, filing away the information. “Do you have any questions.”</p><p>“No,” Rey smiles. “Thank you.”</p><p>“You’re welcome. Good luck, Miss Johnson.”</p><p>//</p><p>Living at Coruscant Academy feels grown up and freeing, but she feels like she’s under constant surveillance. Faculty members know her name even though they’ve never been introduced, kids look at her and smile with crooked, puzzled brows, but they aren’t curious enough to approach her. She keeps her head down, but nods and answers questions with short, awkward responses until she desperately finds an exit.</p><p>There are apparently very important events here, like something called a Start of the Year Pajama Breakfast, but only Rey and a handful of brand new sixth graders show up in anything resembling pajamas. She spends a good amount of time memorizing the school fight song only to have people laugh or scroll through their phones as the band plays on, the song lost among laughter and chatter. Their uniforms are supposed to be unwrinkled and respectfully presentable, but her roommate, Kaydel, has dropped hers in a pile behind their door, tangled with her many pairs of shoes. </p><p>There are rules, but it doesn’t look like anyone follows them. Lights stay on well after 11PM, boys step into girls’ rooms and doors close behind them. There are candles on Kaydel’s desk that she lights each night before going to bed. Rey spots some kids smoking while she’s walking back from dinner on Sunday night, and catches an exchange of alcohol in the hallway of her dorm.</p><p>Unlike her old life, where she could pass through school unnoticed, sneaking by everyone’s glances with downward gazes and pleasantly passable grades, it’s clear that she will be known here. Everyone is. Her usual routines, her own personal guidelines for existanting won’t thrive here. She’s not sure how to navigate this place, how to <em>be</em> here.</p><p>How to survive here.</p><p>Rey looks up at the stone clock tower that looms over the hill toward the athletic facilities. There’s an incredible field here, one that Rey wants to sink her cleats into and breathe in the smell of grass and chalk. There’s an indoor pool and an expansive gymnasium that connects with the locker rooms and offices. </p><p>She met with the athletic director that morning, an older, tall man that kept insisting for her to call him Chewie (“Believe me, everyone calls me Chewie, you’ll get used to it.”) and laughed a lot. He was friendly and genuinely acted as if he was excited she was here, echoing sentiments from the scouts and admission reps, her acceptance letter, and her welcome package. </p><p>Congratulations. Lucky to have you. You’ve been accepted. We’re excited to offer you admission. Just like you, many amazing students have passed through these halls. We need you. Welcome.</p><p>Rey shakes her head, biting her cheek to keep from smiling, as she walks along the secluded path she’s found on campus. She knows she’s lucky, that something happened when she was scouted, something special. Coruscant is going to be a great place to play lacrosse; she’ll have the opportunity to be on a team with players who all have aspirations for college lacrosse, just like her. She’s not paying a cent to be here, her scholarship taking care of everything.</p><p>Her social worker’s voice cracked when she congratulated Rey. Rey sat with her in her office along with an admissions representative to work out the kinks of what was going to happen to Rey, how she’d get to the school, how visitations and appointments and contact would work, if she knew a social worker in upstate New York that she’d recommend. Rey got a hug that day, a real one, tight and smothering and warm. </p><p>The Curascant grounds extend far and there are many trails, from dirt to wide, paved treks, and she’s spent her time before classes start exploring them all. The unpaved ones that require going uphill and disappearing between trees and old, abandoned buildings are usually empty. The most she sees are people running past her, jogging in fresh workout gear with AirPods in their ears. Sometimes she finds someone reading or scrolling through their phone alone under a tree, but she’s mostly alone. The air is crisp and chilled, and the seclusion doesn’t feel so lonesome among the trees and soft breezes, the far off sounds of laughter and yelling mixing with the echoing crunch of leaves under foot.</p><p>The sun descends and so does she, hurrying down her last hill toward The Cavern, the pseudo cafe slash cafeteria they have here. Rey thinks of it as a micro mall food court with a changing menu with a few constant staples. When she first used her meal card, it was surreal to load up her tray and walk away without spending a cent. </p><p>“And, these cookies and chips, I can just take these… whenever?” she asked.</p><p>The man at the register looked her over quickly and then nodded. “Yeah.”</p><p>Rey’s stomach growls, thinking about the plethora of food waiting for her at the bottom of hte hill. She tries to remember Sunday’s menu and lists off the snacks she’s going to grab for later.</p><p>Cheetos. Peanut butter cookie. Oatmeal raisin cookie. Fruit snacks. Banana. BBQ chips. One of those little baggies of carrots that comes with a cup of ranch dressing. M&amp;Ms.</p><p>“Woah.”</p><p>“Ah!”</p><p>Rey blinks, springing back from what she can only assume is a hard, warm wall she’s run into.</p><p>“Watch it,” a sharp voice says.</p><p>Rey stumbles to a stop and turns. A guy is walking away, he’s tall and is wearing black jeans that hug his legs tight, a black hoodie open, but the hood over his head. He turns to look at her, but Rey can only see a slice of his face, a strong nose peeking out from his hood and a patch of dark hair fanning out thanks to the breeze.</p><p>“Watch yourself,” Rey shouts back. A lifetime of stupid and pushy older foster siblings means she has a short possessive, anger reflex.</p><p>His arm raises and he flips her off without looking back.</p><p>//</p><p>Rey looks at herself in the mirror on the morning of her first day of classes. She’s wearing pants, khaki colored, stiff, and new. She’s actually wearing a belt, faux black leather and given to her with her uniform. Her green polo shirt is untucked, the shield and knight embroidered in grey on the left side of her chest. Next is her black sweater, stitched with accents of green and blue. She’s pulled the polo collar through and flattened it along the neckline of her sweater. Her hair’s pulled back in a ponytail and she’s wearing her black Vans, which thankfully fit the dress code.</p><p>“You look great!” Kaydel says checking her hair in the mirror behind Rey.</p><p>Rey’s smile is tight, but grateful.</p><p>Rey looks like a character from one of those CW shows where no one has anything better to do than pretend to go to class and get drunk at parties on someone’s yacht or something. She feels fictional.</p><p>The school issued scarf is left forgotten on her bed and now she’s cold, the bite of the chilled autumn air gnawing at her neck. How is it this cold already? Rey has the startling realization that it will snow at some point and she snuggles into her sweater, bunching her shoulders up to her ears.</p><p>Her first class is precalculus. Back at Niima High, she finished her requirements for math and was looking forward to more elective classes, but Coruscant had other plans. Not only is she taking math, but also chemistry, and she’s tacked on more time with French as well. Public high school promised her easy living in its last two years, but it’s been snatched away.</p><p>Not that she should complain, but it is 8 o’clock in the morning and she has to think about numbers.</p><p>“It’s you!”</p><p>Rey looks to her right just as a girl sits down next to her. The girl’s smile is so big that it’s overtaking her entire face. She’s looking at Rey with such an awed excitement as if Rey is actually Santa Claus or something.</p><p>“It’s me,” Rey says, more like a question.</p><p>The girl leans closer and Rey doesn’t move, both scared and amused by her. She’s small, with short black hair that’s been braided into the two shortest braids on either side of her head. She has dark eyeshadow on, which Rey thinks isn’t allowed, and her nails are painted black, which Rey definitely knows isn’t allowed.</p><p>“I’m Rose.”</p><p>“Hi,” Rey says. “I’m Rey.”</p><p>“I know! Coach told us -- has been telling us, really, since the end of last school year!” Rose settles into her seat and starts digging in her backpack, placing notebooks and pencils and a calculator on her desk as she goes on. “Kaydel says you’re her roommate, isn’t she great, I love her. Do you like it here?”</p><p>“It’s cold,” Rey says.</p><p>Rose tilts her head. “Where are you from?”</p><p>“Arizona.”</p><p>Rose nods, smiling. “Yeah, it is cold here.”</p><p>The teacher walks in and Rey quickly pulls her own supplies from her bag just as Rose’s phone plops onto her desk. Rey looks back at her, confused.</p><p>“Put your number in my phone,” Rose says, writing the date on her paper.</p><p>“Oh, I actually don’t have a phone number.”</p><p>“Okay,” Rose says, surprisingly unphased. “Then just add yourself to my Instagram or something.”</p><p>Rose reaches over and taps on the instagram icon and it opens, revealing a picture of a bunch of people Rey doesn’t know, all in their Coruscant uniforms, at the top of Rose’s feed. Rey searches for herself and presses the follow button. Her own phone buzzes in her pocket.</p><p>“Thanks,” Rose whispers, grabbing her phone just as class begins.</p><p>Rey whispers a thank you back, but it gets caught in her throat.</p><p>//</p><p>The chill bites harder as the days go by. Rey learns where everything is on campus, memorizes faces and names, tries to make it all stick. She has more homework than she’s ever had before in her life. She’s not the only one. When she walks around the grounds, everyone has their nose in a book, sitting in circles with heads bent and textbooks open, fingers quickly flying across laptop keys. The air has already picked up a charge that is usually reserved for days before midterms or final grades. Rey spends her extra time at the library, doing just as everyone else. Typing. Studying. Reading. Repeat.</p><p>When her brain is tired or she’s waiting in line for more snacks or coffee, she scrolls Instagram. Since becoming friends with Rose, she can see more of life on campus, instead of her usual endless glamour shots of burritos or timelapse cake decorating videos that usually overwhelm her feed. Rey double taps on Rose’s pictures of the buildings on campus, leaves bright and beautiful under her boots. There’s lots of pictures of selfies and friends, including Kaydel. Rey feels a weird sense of jealousy and pride when she scrolls past pictures of the lacross team last season. Rey’s own profile is just a selfie of her, a doodle she made of a monster made of nachos, and her most recent picture: a pile of snacks she commandeered from The Cavern. </p><p>She’s scrolling and clicking through profiles now, finding them to be as familiar as the ones she used to lurk back in Niima. Selfies. Textbooks and coffee cups. Memes. Ice cream. Flowers. Outfits of the day. The photos of friends smiling and parents hugging their kids goodbye itch at her skin. Loneliness creeps in and fogs her over until she snaps out of the endless loop and goes back to double tapping pictures of cookies and milkshakes.</p><p>It’s Friday and the library is all but deserted. Rey likes the library. Along with the trails she keeps discovering around the grounds, it's her favorite place on campus. It smells old and dusty along the rows of books, but when she’s sitting at the long, worn wooden tables, the sun and open air of the tall ceilings make her feel refreshed. It’s an old building, beautiful, reminiscent of Hogwarts day dreams. Magical.</p><p>She ascends the stairs and makes a right, following the simple signs that someone’s taped to the walls. She finds a haphazard circle of armchairs and old looking wooden desk chairs. Only two students are there, chatting quietly with each other, but it’s clear this is where she’s supposed to be.</p><p>Rey stands a little straighter and walks toward the circle, eyeing the rows of books and art on the walls so she doesn’t look too eager or lost. When she gets to the chairs, the two girls look at her and smile politely and Rey does the same. They turn back to their conversation and Rey’s shoulders drop a little, relieved she doesn’t have to try to have any kind of conversation or introduce herself for the millionth time. She’s never said her own name more than she has in the last week.</p><p>There’s an extremely comfortable looking armchair that is worn in the best way and Rey giddily sits down, tucking her legs under herself and leaning into the arm. It’s oversized and way too big for her, but all the better for her to curl up in. She makes a note that this chair is available for her to curl up in any time she needs to study and pulls out her phone and starts mindlessly scrolling, waiting for the group to start.</p><p>Rey’s not a writer. She’s an avid reader, sure, but not a writer. Her advisor, Ms. Kanata, asked her a few questions over email that summer, wondering what kind of clubs she’d be interested in joining, and Rey was initially horrified to learn she would be doing anything besides going to class and playing lacrosse. She’s never done clubs before, even when she did surprisingly well in the schoolwide spelling bee in second grade, she turned down going to the county spelling bee. There were book clubs on campus, but Ms. Kanata had a different idea: a writing club.</p><p>Too flustered to say no, she’s here now.</p><p>There’s a thump and her chair moves a little. Rey assumes someone ran into the chair leg or something, so she adjusts, pulling her legs in more. She keeps scrolling through her phone, double tapping a picture of a hamburger with buns made of grilled cheese sandwiches. </p><p>Another thump. It takes Rey another moment and one more thump to realize someone isn’t running into her chair by accident. They’re kicking it.</p><p>She looks up.</p><p>There’s a guy looking down at her, his polo untucked and AirPods in his oversized ears. He is very tall, that is clear even from where she’s seated, and his face is painfully angular. His dark hair falls over his forehead, dusting over his brown eyes that are staring down at her with a terrible mixture of annoyance and anger. There’s something familiar about his nose.</p><p>“You’re in my seat.”</p><p>Ah yes. The boy who flipped her off.</p><p>Rey looks past him and then dramatically to her right and left.</p><p>“There’s plenty of seats.”</p><p>“This is my seat.”</p><p>“Does it have your name on it?”</p><p>He scoffs, pushing his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “No--”</p><p>“Then I don’t think this is your seat,” Rey says.</p><p>The guy blinks, clearly taken aback, but is quick to rearrange his face back to some form of conceited asshole or aloof jerk. He’s obviously perfected this look.</p><p>He doesn’t say anything and beats pass as they stare at each other. He has moles on his face and his skin is pale. There’s a small pin of a knight on his lapel. Their school mascot is the Knights, but this one looks different and holds two crossed swords above his head. </p><p>“You’re new here,” he offers, voice almost patient.</p><p>“And you’re so wonderfully observant.”</p><p>She’s been a possessive and angry shit to foster siblings and caretakers before, but this is new. She doesn’t know this guy, but he’s being an ass and apparently whatever he’s dishing out, she can match easily. It’s almost fun, which is definitely very new. Nothing about interacting with other people is usually fun for her.</p><p>His head tilts and he studies her, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough for her to notice. Rey looks away from his gaze and notices that not only have a few more people joined the group, but they’re all watching Rey and this guy. Her cheeks heat and she’s worried he’ll notice her blush and think it has anything to do with him intimidating her. She swallows and gestures to a desk chair across the circle.</p><p>“There’s a spot over there,” Rey offers, looking back up at him. “Take it.”</p><p>His eyes open wider but he blinks the surprise away, narrowing his stare once more. His neck is turning pink, out of anger or embarrassment, she isn’t sure, but she’s enjoying it. It doesn’t feel foreign exactly, getting a rise out of people, but it’s been awhile. She used to be a handful when she was younger and she remembers chewing gum in class when she wasn’t supposed to or stealing another foster kid’s stuff. It was a way to be noticed. Sometime around 4th grade, she started to hate the actual consequences, like missing recess or moving foster homes. So she quit and lost her taste for attention.</p><p>She doesn’t want this guy’s attention, really, but it’s clear he’s not used to being treated this way and it’s harmless and fun. She’s actually enjoying the flush on his skin and the way his jaw is tensed.</p><p>“Ah, good afternoon!”</p><p>A cheerful voice interrupts the silent standoff, but Rey keeps her eyes on the menace until an older man, presumably the faculty advisor for the club, puts a hand on his shoulder. </p><p>“Mr. Solo! Good afternoon, please leave this person alone.”</p><p>“She’s in my seat,” the guy says in response, his voice no longer holding his deep annoyance, but now laced with something like a whine. Rey bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.</p><p>Finally, he blinks and sits in a chair next to her. Rey moves her body so she’s facing the other way as much as she can, waiting for the teacher to begin.</p><p>“Hello everyone,” he says after clearing his throat. He motions to everyone in some vague hand movement of acknowledgement. “My name is Mr. Skywalker.”</p><p>Rey’s eyebrows shoot up. Skywalker? Like the building?</p><p>“I know most of you. Not you,” Mr. Skywalker says, pointing at Rey. Her body heats, embarrassed and confused. “Anyway, welcome to the upperclassmen writing club. Welcome back to the seniors and welcome aboard juniors. Let’s get started. Please get out a piece of paper.”</p><p>A voice pipes up from across the room. “Can we use our--”</p><p>“Nope, you cannot use your laptop. Not while we are in group, but you can for pieces you bring in because I don’t care how you do things when I’m not around.”</p><p>Rey shuffles for a notebook and pen as Mr. Skywalker continues talking about how everyone should get a notebook for group time and makes a wisecrack about dream journals and rants about the sound of clacking keys until everyone is settled and waiting.</p><p>“Introduce yourself in whatever way you want on that paper. Hopefully with some words, please. Poem, prose, story, I don’t care. You have 15 minutes and then we’ll share.” The group stares at him as he takes a swig from a coffee mug. Not even a travel one, but a regular porcelain coffee mug. How did she not notice that? “Go,” he says impatiently.</p><p>Rey stares at her paper. Around her, the sound of everyone shifting or writing is slowly becoming louder and louder as she continues to just stare, unmoving, at her notebook. She’s never written anything before, nothing that wasn’t a specific assignment with rubrics and thesis statements. She once wrote a paragraph from the perspective of Juliet for a project freshman year, but it was hardly that creative and she only chose to do it because it was the easiest option.</p><p>She thought there’d be a little more guidance or maybe some stupid ice breaker before she had to actually write anything and share it. She rolls her pen between her fingers, chews on the top. More people have started writing and her heart picks up the pace against her chest, her palms sweating. She has to present something. Could she get kicked out of the group? She could leave now, maybe, this whole thing is voluntary.</p><p>“You’re about halfway through, folks,” Mr. Skywalker chimes in, his eyes not lifting from his book. “If you haven’t started, may I suggest writing literally anything at all?”</p><p>Rey is sure that comment is just for her. She looks up to see what everyone else is doing and she’s met with heads down, pens flying across paper. Even Solo is writing next to her, focused and quick as his pen glides along. Rey closes her eyes, hangs her head, and thinks.</p><p>She makes a list.</p><p>Rey likes lists. They’re simple and help her catalogue her memories and thoughts. She doesn’t have a photographic memory or anything, but lists do stick in her head, set on repeat like short songs that help her remember things she may need later or help her get rid of things she’d rather forget.</p><p>So she makes a list that is Rey Johnson. As soon as she’s halfway down the page, she wishes she could rearrange some items, others omitted altogether. </p><p>This particular list is absolutely everywhere. </p><p>Nelsons. Seavers. Mary. Knutons. Color pencil shavings. Daisies. Donut mountain. Lion King. Anne of Green Gables. A perfectly executed uppercase cursive S. Fear of spiders. Being pushed off a bunk bed. Finding hiding places. Prickly pear gummy candy from Unkar’s. A spider’s dumb legs.</p><p>There’s dates and families she’s been with, scars on her body and snapshots of nights spent alone. Particular posters and copies of Amelia Badelia books that she remembers from elementary school classrooms.There are clumps of good things, clumps of bad, a string of favorite foods and colors. There’s feelings that she’s crossed out, not wanting to share. How personal were they supposed to get?</p><p>Mr. Skywalker calls time in the middle of a word. Rey doesn’t finish it.</p><p>She evaluates her list, full of arrows and circles and crossed out words. She wasn’t aware she was doing this much editing as she went, nor did she realize she wrote so much. There’s three pages full of items. Three pages of Rey.</p><p>“Before we get started,” Mr. Skywalker says, “I want to let you know we are sharing today, but not doing critique. Next week we’ll come up with guidelines for critique and then we can begin that process. We’re just introducing ourselves here, warming up, blah, blah, blah. Let’s go.”</p><p>He motions to a girl to his right and she introduces herself and begins to read, a soft flush to her cheeks, a shake in her fingers as she holds her pen. Rey takes comfort in her nerves, her shoulders relaxing as she sits back in her chair and listens to her read.</p><p>The girl, who from her shy introduction Rey now knows as Emma, reads on. It sounds like a soft start to a poem, like disjointed thoughts that sometimes rhyme or follow a very nice flow and then fall short. It’s nice and does make Rey feel like she knows Emma, just a little.</p><p>Mr. Skywalker doesn’t critique or really say anything about the writing itself, just welcomes her to the group and motions for the next person to go. Rey listens to everyone. She laughs, smiles, leans in, invests. It’s oddly comforting how different everyone’s pieces are. Rey’s never really <em>known</em> anyone before, she’s never had friends. This, sadly, is the closest she’s had to sharing secrets or asking more than to just borrow something or ask how to get somewhere.</p><p>Rey’s never questioned her life before. It’s always just been this way, it’s how she navigates the world, lives in it, survives it. She’s been at Coruscant for less than a week and now she’s wondering if there’s something she’s been missing out on this whole time.</p><p>“You’re up, Mr. Solo.”</p><p>Rey blinks, turning her attention to her right. Solo is sitting, legs crossed, an ankle resting on his knee. He looks so awkward in that chair, all long limbs and big features. His hands take up most of the notebook he’s holding and his foot is huge hanging off his knee. Navigating the world in that body must be all kinds of inconvenient, but he looks as if he’s mastered it. Rey likes being compact, it helps to keep her invisible. Solo could never hide in a crowd, whether he wanted to or not.</p><p>His notebook is open on his thigh and Rey notices his handwriting is tidy and curvy, with flourishes to some of his letters. She looks back down at her chicken scratch list and leans over her notebook, propping her elbow on it, chin in her hand. She waits for him to start reading.</p><p>His eyes move up, scanning the circle of students.</p><p>“I’m Ben,” he says. His voice also seems big, even though it’s quiet, too low like it warms in his throat before he starts speaking. “I wrote a piece of prose, or something.”</p><p>His introduction is almost shy, which turns everything Rey knows about Ben Solo on its head.</p><p>His voice is measured, but there’s a hint of uncertainty there. He’s written something that just sounds like he’s poured the contents of his mind onto the paper, unorganized and chaotic. He stumbles on some words, (“Sorry, I wrote too fast”) and takes breaks between sentences as if he himself is digesting them for the first time. Everything sounds half formed, like mentions of shadows and echoing words without follow through to what they mean, what they’re saying. Rey tries to puzzle together the images he’s laying out, the questions he’s posing, but then he’s onto the next, reading that he’s been screaming at night and nothing is stopping it. While she tries to figure out what he means three sentences back, he ends, on the image of two strings tangled together, cut off mid sentence just like her unfinished word.</p><p>There’s a long pause after he finishes, a beat or two for his words to digest. Rey’s hardly begun to process them all when his eyes move to hers. It’s an open stare, but turns guarded and tense quickly when their eyes lock. His eyes are a richer, warmer brown than she first thought. Maybe there’s a hint of gold and green there, too.</p><p>Ben tilts his chin at her and that’s when Rey realizes Mr. Skywalker has been trying to get her attention.</p><p>“Sorry.” She shakes her head and quickly looks back to Mr. Skywalker. “Sorry, Mr. Skywalker.”</p><p>The teacher shrugs and waves his hand as if to signal that it’s no big deal that she’s been ignoring him for who knows how long. Rey can still feel Ben’s eyes on her.</p><p>“So,” Mr. Skywalker says. “Who are you?”</p><p>Rey takes a breath and shrugs her shoulders. “I’m Rey.”</p><p>Mr. Skywalker smiles at her. “Welcome, Rey. Let’s hear it.”</p><p>“I wrote a list,” Rey explains, her skin prickling with nerves. “I like lists, so.”</p><p>Mr. Skywalker nods patiently and then motions for her to continue.</p><p>And for the first time in her entire life, Rey shares her favorite foods, colors, memories that she would rather forget and others that she wants to remember forever. She shares her passion for lacrosse and her newfound love for autumn leaves. Summer nights and ice cream and sleeping under the stars. It’s completely weird and terrifically scary, to be known. Nine people know more about her than anyone else. </p><p>More than her parents ever want to know.</p><p>When she’s finished, she’s weightless but charged, like that anticipation of thunder after watching lightning strike. </p><p>“Thank you, Rey,” Mr. Skywalker says.</p><p>Rey smiles and looks down at her paper as Mr. Skywalker motions for the last student to begin. They introduce themselves and begin reading their piece, but water is rushing in Rey’s ears and her heartbeat is desperately trying to slow down. It’s like adrenaline, like being on the field, sweat and dirt glistening on your skin and over tired muscles and bruises after a win. Like taking the first bite of a burger after a late night shift. It’s new and great and scary.</p><p>Rey’s neck prickles and there's the start to a shiver against her skin. She blinks, the sound of the student reading softening, as Rey looks to her right.</p><p>Ben’s eyes are on her and she can’t read them at all. He doesn’t mind getting caught apparently, staring at her for what feels like minutes before he looks away and writes something in the margin of his notebook paper. </p><p>She tears her gaze away, something new swirling in her veins, something that comes with being known, something that she didn’t consider before she shared. Something she didn’t consider before coming to Coruscant. </p><p>Rey slides her list between her body and the arm of the chair and pulls her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her knees. When you’re known, when you’ve been seen, it’s like you’re exposed to the elements. And the elements? Rey doesn't know what they are, what effect or damage they will have on her, or how she will defend herself against them.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks! Updates coming soon! <a href="https://twitter.com/endmebensolo">Catch me on twitter</a>!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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